CHAPTER XXI

BETWEEN MAN AND MAN

ALL that night the rain fell steadily; harking to its slow patter on the roof, Miles thought on those who were tramping the forest, and wondered how they fared. Ned, stretched beside him, save for his regular breathing, lay like one dead, and yonder in the living room he could hear Trug, admitted to shelter from the rain, grumbling in his sleep.

A long, long night it was, and the day that followed, all blurry with faint sunshine, was well nigh as long. Little work was to do in the wet fields, so Miles fetched pails of water and tended the fretting babies, while, like every other soul in the colony, he waited for news of the Captain and his men.

A second night, sickly with warm mist, had closed in on Plymouth, before tidings came. Miles and Giles had gone forth together into the moist darkness to the spring, where they drank, before drawing a last bucketful for the house; the alders looked startlingly dense against the lighter black of the sky, and Miles kept close to Giles.

Even the elder boy was more alert than his wont, and jumped listening to his feet, when far up the Namasket trail sounded ordered footsteps. "'Tis father and the men returning," he cried next moment, and scrambled swiftly up the bluff, with Miles, eager yet half in dread lest ill had befallen, panting after.

Down through the dusk of the trail men were coming--the heavily armed Englishmen and in their midst some scantily clad savages. Giles, forgetful of reserve for once, pressed forward boldly to meet his father, but Miles, having no one to meet, stood back in the bushes, that touched his face clammily, and watched the little column, noisy now, as home approached, swing past. At its head marched a stocky figure that he knew, and, as if the Captain could see him even in the blackness, Miles shrank a little farther into the bushes.

Yet he joined himself to the very end of the column, for he had no will to stay alone in the dark. Goodman Cooke marched there, and, eager to have some friend in the party, Miles fell into step beside him. "You are all come back safe, sir?" he asked propitiatingly.

"Surely, yes," the other replied. "All sound, save three Indians we fetched hither to the Doctor. Best of all, we've Squanto here; we found him unhurt."

By this they had come down into the village, where all the people, it seemed, had hurried forth, and, hearing the news of their interpreter's return, showed no small joy thereover. Squanto, a figure of varying light and shade beneath the lantern glow, took such expressions of kind feeling stolidly, and profited from the good wishes of his white friends by asking for strong water. There was some merriment thereat among the Englishmen,--all were in good spirits, in truth, for the expedition had fared well.

In broken fragments Miles caught the story as he was hustled about among the returned soldiers and, with the other lads, stood staring at them under the lantern light: how the Englishmen, coming at midnight to Namasket, had beset the house of Corbitant, but found that valiant chief had fled at the mere rumor of their approach; how several of the Indians, trying to press forth in spite of their promises that no harm was meant them, had been hurt; how Squanto and Tokamahamon had been found alive; and how, after leaving for Corbitant a stern warning as to what he might expect if he continued to stir up rebellion against Massasoit and his allies, they had returned, successful and unscathed.

But the story was quickly told by the hungry men, and then they scattered to their houses. The street was swiftly emptied, and even Giles, calling to Miles to fetch home the bucket they had left at the spring, trudged away with his father.

Miles turned slowly up the street; he had admitted it to no one, even to Giles and Ned, but the last week he had had a fear of the black woods. Spite of his boasts to the boys of his merry life with the savages, he shuddered every time he thought of Nauset, and he had a foolish feeling that if he ventured into the forest the Indians might swoop down on him again. In the daytime he could laugh it away, but at night, and especially after the anxiety of the last twenty-four hours, the fear came on him strongly, and it did not seem as if the courage was in him to go down to the inky spring alongside the stepping-stones that led to the woods.

He stood a time by Cooke's gate, in the hope that he might see some one else bound for the spring, but no one came. He went a few steps down the street, but, if he returned to the house without the bucket, he would be scolded, so, at a snail's gait, he trudged uphill again.

Then it was that he noted the companionable light that shone in the window of Standish's cottage, high up the hillside, and, though he was afraid of the Captain, yet there seemed a kind of encouragement in that shiny spark that made him cross the street and loiter nearer. "Maybe John Alden'll be going to the spring," he told himself. "Or maybe--maybe I'll go, presently."

Just at the edge of the Captain's unfenced dooryard, he halted and stood gazing at the light. He was not spying, to be sure; he would go in a moment. Through the open window he could see a corner of the living room, a table, with a rack and three guns above it, and, as he gazed, Alden, a big, black figure, strode into the bright corner and set down two bowls on the table. Miles drew a step or two nearer. "Maybe the Captain will come into the light next," he told himself. "And after I've seen him, then--"

And then some one took him firmly by the shoulder, and right beside him spoke the Captain's voice, "Well, Miles?"

"Oh!" the boy gasped, and then, in a panic-stricken tone, "I'm going home; prithee, let me go home, sir."

"Nay, you are coming in with me," Standish answered, and, helplessly, Miles yielded to the other's grasp and stumbled over the threshold.

Within, the living room was bare and martial, with a rapier above the chimneypiece that caught a gleam from the candle set below it, and the form by the door and the rough stools standing stiffly as on parade. On a shelf beside the fireplace there were some pots and platters; Miles noted all very accurately, and wondered that he should note them at such a time.

He started when Captain Standish spoke, for all his tone was amused: "Here, Jack, set a bowl for this gentleman I have fetched to sup with us. And you, Miles, will you give me your parole not to attempt an escape, if I take my hand from your collar?"

Miles eyed the shaft of candlelight that lay at his feet and ventured no answer. He knew the Captain had loosed his grasp on him, and then he heard him ask, in a different, serious tone: "Are you afraid of me?"

At that Miles tossed back his head, stiffly as if a bar of iron were run down his neck. "No, sir," he said, boldly and untruthfully.

He could not slip away now, whatever might be in store for him, but stood rigid and unpretending, while Captain Standish flung off his buff-coat, and Alden, with a ponderous movement, lifted the soup kettle to the table. Then he sat down on a stool, as he was bidden, and ate. It was clam broth, and he was aware of the good flavor of it, just as he was aware, beneath all his alarm, of the honorable fact that he was taking supper with Captain Standish. He began to hazard long looks at the Captain and to listen to the talk of the two men, with some thought for their words, as well as for his own concerns.

"This is none of your cooking, Jack," said Standish, as he rose to refill his bowl.

"Mistress Mullins fetched us the broth," Alden replied, with a studious lack of interest. "She thought we'd have naught to eat in the house to-night."

"'Twas very wisely thought. When you have eaten, Jack, best carry back her kettle. They'll not yet be abed at the Elder's house."

Somehow, after that, Alden made short work of his portion, and, summarily emptying the kettle into the Captain's bowl, gave it a perfunctory scrub and started briskly for Master Brewster's cottage.

The Captain, with his face sober all but his eyes, swallowed his broth in leisurely silence for a moment before he addressed his small companion: "I had speech with Priscilla Mullins several days since. What is this, Miles, that she tells me you had to say to me?"

Miles crumbled the fag end of his piece of bread with one nervous hand. "Why, 'twas--'twas--Captain Standish, is it true you think me the worst lad in the settlement?" He looked up into the other's face, and something he saw there made him blurt out, "I doubt if you do."

"So that's why you ran away from me day before yesterday, is it?"

Miles kicked his heels softly against the legs of his stool. "Because I want to tell you I'm sorry," he murmured. "I shall never run away to the Indians again. I--I was but talking when I said those words unto Francis and the others."

"A 'miles gloriosus,' eh?" said the Captain, and smiled.

Miles saw nothing amusing in the words, but he took it as a sign the Captain was his friend again, so he smiled back. "I won't do it again, sir," he promised vaguely, and then, as Standish rose from the table, he slipped off his stool. "May I wash the dishes, sir?" he volunteered for "a girl's work" eagerly.

"If you wish it," the Captain answered, and then, about the time Miles had dropped the bowls and spoons into the nearest pail of water, broke out irrelevantly, "In the name of goodness, Miles, are those the only breeches you have to wear?"

Miles clapped his right hand over one knee, and his left over an ostentatious rift in the side. "She hasn't time to make me new ones; I'm wearing these for punishment," he explained.

"Indeed!" said Standish; he took his pipe from the chimneypiece and, filling it, kept silent so long that Miles finished his dishes and stole over to the hearth beside him. On the chimneypiece some books stood up from the miscellaneous litter, and, because they were the Captain's books, Miles raised himself on tiptoe to read their names. A "Bariffe's Artillery Guide" pleased him most; he was wondering if he could learn from that how to be a soldier like the Captain, when behind him spoke a familiar voice: "Well, Miley, do you have it in mind to sleep at home to-night?"

Miles swung round with a start; Master Hopkins and that bucket of water and the scolding to come,--he remembered all clearly, for there in the doorway stood Ned Lister, with his out of temper look. "The master sent me to find the boy," he explained more civilly to the Captain. "I've sought him all through the village. Come, Miles, Master Hopkins--"

Involuntarily Miles pressed close to the Captain. "Is he going to whip me, Ned?" he asked anxiously.

"Tell Master Hopkins I'll send the lad home straightway," Standish dismissed Lister curtly, then puffed a moment at his pipe till the young man's leisurely footsteps died out in the yard. "So Master Hopkins whips you often?" he questioned abruptly.

"He says I need the rod," Miles answered in a woful voice, wondering if the Captain would take his part. "He says I'm a son of perdition. I see not why 'tis right. When Ned Lister called Dotey a fool, he said he was in danger of hell fire, and, sure, son of perdition is a worser name than fool."

"Hm!" muttered the Captain. "And you're still good friends with that valiant duellist, Edward Lister?"

"I like Ned mightily, yes. But Master Hopkins does not suffer me work near him."

"That's for punishment, too, I take it?"

Miles nodded.

"At this rate you should prove the best lad in the colony, not the worst," the Captain said dryly; and then, "Say we walk down to Master Hopkins's house now, and see how that wounded Indian is faring."

A queer, vague hope that had risen in Miles vanished and left an amazing emptiness; the blackness of the lonely spring, and the whipping for that evening's tarrying came to his mind before he had crossed the room, and in the doorway he halted short.

"What's amiss?" asked Standish, with no great surprise, however.

"I--I take it, I'm afraid," gasped Miles, hot and cold with the shame of the terror he could not check. "I must go down to the spring, and 'tis dark, and I think I'll be whipped, and--and--" His lips were twitching childishly. "But I wasn't afraid at Nauset, not a whit, and I didn't cry there," he added piteously.

"I understand," the Captain said, with amazing kindness. "I'll go to the spring with you, Miles."

For the second time in his life, Miles stepped out into the night with the Captain, but there was small elation in his heart with the knowledge of his cowardice upon him. He felt a censure in his companion's silence, yet he dared not speak himself, only hurried forward as fast as possible to end the walk. They left the last cottage behind them, passed a menacing clump of bushes, and then, at the head of the path, Miles spoke out, almost in spite of himself: "Pray you, go back, sir. I'm not afraid. I won't be afraid. I'll go alone."

He called back the last, halfway down the path. The pebbles rattled with shocking loudness; there in the thicket, across the sullen brook, something stirred, he knew. With his eyes on the black ground, he stumbled toward the gurgle of the spring, groped for his bucket, fearing lest his hand touch something else, and, seizing it, filled it sparsely at the first dip, then, setting his teeth tight, made himself fill it again, slowly and carefully.

Behind him, as he rose, the bushes all were moving and alive, and something, he knew, pressed close at his heels. He could not hurry with the bucket in his hand, only clamber, step by step, with the breath choked within him, till he came at last to the black pathway above the bluff. Before he could cast a frightened look up the trail, the bucket was quietly taken from him. "You waited here for me?" Miles gasped, and then, "But I wasn't afraid."

"You will not be next time, Soldier Rigdale," Standish answered him, and, putting a hand on his shoulder, kept it there.

Before they were into the thick of the settlement, he spoke again, abruptly: "So you're not happy at Master Hopkins's?"

"I hate it there," Miles said under his breath, and then the hope that the Captain's former words had raised swept back once more, and he caught the other's hand. "Will you take me away from him, sir?" he asked hurriedly. "If I could live with Jack Cooke, anywhere else, I know I could be good."

"I know you could, too," Standish answered. "And I think your father and mother would wish it. But Master Hopkins is your guardian and your kinsman; I can do naught, only try my hand at coaxing, and I'm uncommon ill at that. My faith, I know not why I speak it out to such a babe as you, Miles, but you must say naught of this, remember. Only--if 'twill comfort you for your tattered breeches and the rest of your penances,--so soon as pretext is given me, I am minded to take you from Master Hopkins to live with me."

"With you?" Miles asked in the blankness of joy, and then he must hush, for the candlelight from Master Hopkins's window struck across his face, and an instant later they came into the living room.

Master Hopkins looked angry, of course, but his face relaxed at sight of the Captain, and he only bade Miles pack off to bed. "But he'll surely thrash you in the morning, Miles," Giles said, with a sober pucker of the brows. "What made you stay so long?"

"I was with the Captain," Miles replied light-heartedly, and to himself he added, "And by and by 'twill be like this evening every day, for I'll live with him all the time."